


Broken Knuckles and Soft kisses

by Mishka10



Category: The Witcher (TV), Wiedźmin | The Witcher - All Media Types
Genre: Caring Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia, Comfort, Crying Jaskier | Dandelion, Forehead Kisses, Hurt Jaskier | Dandelion, Hurt/Comfort, Jaskier | Dandelion Can Take Care of Himself, M/M, Soft Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia, Tears, soft
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-06-29
Updated: 2020-06-29
Packaged: 2021-03-04 06:07:31
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,099
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24978910
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Mishka10/pseuds/Mishka10
Summary: "Initially he doesn’t even realise that he is crying. Slow salty tears, welling up in the corner of his eyes, spilling over, rolling down his face. It’s not until they drip down, trailing along his cheeks, dripping off the end of his chin, that he notices the tears. Realises what they are. Realises he is crying."Jaskier gets into a bar fight, punches are thrown, bottles broken, just another typical friday night.Or it would be, if this time it hadn't lead to overspilling of messy emotions. Lucky Geralt is there to clean them up.
Relationships: Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia/Jaskier | Dandelion
Comments: 7
Kudos: 238





	Broken Knuckles and Soft kisses

A hand gently trails through his hair, warm and soft and light in touch, but unmistakably present.

It’s soft. So soft. Placing it at such a stark contrast to the harsh reality of the rest of their world.

The broad chest he finds himself lain on is warm, if nowhere near as soft, the rough fabric of Geralt’s shirt somewhat lacking the comfort of kinder materials.

Not that he minds now, relieved as he is to be there, body still shaking from the remaining wisps of adrenaline, whispering through his veins.

It was nothing, hardly unusual, hardly a big deal. He knows that. Knows he has dealt with worse before.

Hell, he’s been beaten, clawed, half-drowned on occasion. Dealt with exhaustion, starvation, dehydration.

This had been nothing in the face of that, nothing in the face of so many other battles.

All it had been was one half-assed bar fight, a loud drunken idiot took issue with his words, decided to solve that issue with his fists.

The man took a swing at him, mid song and all, it was a useless, sloppy hit, little actual force behind it. But he was buzzing, energy high, blood already pumping through his veins. So like a fool, fuelled with unnecessary rage, he is he swung back. Fist met flesh, a satisfying crunch sent the man stumbling back, clutching his face, nose already bleeding.

Good.

That might have been the end of it, if only the bastard hadn’t had friends.

Big friends. Sober enough to still see straight. Sober enough to pack a punch. 

So a few more hits, a broken table, ale mugs sent scattering… and here he sat, knuckles bruised and bleeding, ribs aching in turn but mercifully unbroken. A gash on the arm, easily cleaned and bandaged, not even in need of stitches.

Minor inconveniences in the greater scale of things.

Lord only knows it had happened all before. He has had worse, so so much worse. In truth barely enough punches thrown before the innkeeper kicked them out. All of them, sent them spilling out into the dirty street. 

A turn of events that likely meant little to their drunken opponents, the men waving a truce, setting off to stumble home to their warm beds.

Geralt and himself however… sadly they where not so lucky. Stuck traipsing back beyond the edges of town. Another night sleeping rough with only well-worn bed rolls between them and the forest floor

That, the loss of those creature comforts, not only for himself but Geralt as well… it stings, a deep burning pain, low in his gut. 

Not that the Witcher seems overly bothered. Or if he is, he hies it well enough, offering more than a gruff, “dammit Jaskier” and light cuff around the head, along with the odd disapproving grumble while bandaging up their wounds.

When all was said and done, he still tugged the bard close when they settled down for bed. Letting the man slot in beside him, Jaskier tucked against his chest, warm and safe.

No harm done it seemed.

So why then, does Jaskier’s chest feel as though it has become a deep cavernous pit, heart sunken and lost, yet somehow still aching, from the depths within him? Why has this unnatural coldness settled into his bones, numbing fingers, freezing them, weighted and useless in place, why do his eyes sting with unreleased tears, heavy and ugly, threatening to fall.

It was nothing.

And yet… he cannot deny it does not feel that way.

He sucks in a shaky breath, not wanting to cry, to ruin this moment of soft relaxation. Feel Geralt pull away, roll over and tug the blankets up close around him, shutting Jaskier out. Rightfully driven away when all he wants is sleep, by the bard’s unnecessary tears and mess.

The mess of human emotion, that was something Geralt always seems so good at containing, keeping hidden under lock and key, only visible when you pry away the exterior, wrench locked doors free from their hinges, and even then, you are often only rewarded with a sliver, the slightest hint of what lays so far beneath.

He’s never been that way, always worn his heart on his sleeve, his feelings splashed across his face, clear as day for all to see.

Or at least, all who bother to look.

He thinks that is what saves him, so often, the simple fact most people don’t bother to look. Most don’t offer more than a passing glance, apart from when he is performing of course.

But that is different, the thrum of excitement, energy from having eyes drawn to him, the carefully tailored mask every performer knows how to put on. The charming smile, twinkle in the eye, he wears his emotions just as openly there as well. 

Or perhaps, he thinks sometimes, he is wrong. Perhaps they do see at other times, and simply don’t care. Find it easier to leave the bard be then be bothered to pry away the paper mask he has plastered to his face.

Sometimes he imagines they must, he knows he shows what he feels, and he feels… gods he feels so much. 

Whereas Geralt seems able to contain every emotion, kept quiet and in line, his own emotions are… temperamental, messy things. Liable to bubble up and spill over at a moment’s notice.

And he feels them. He feels them all so much.

Joy burns through his body, nerves on fire, bright, so bright, shining through him, light and airy. Anger flares up within his chest, red and raw, muscles drawn tense, tugging at him. Sorrow burrows down, far within his chest, deep and aching.

His emotions flood over him like waves, and so often he feels as though he may drown below their weight.

He feels them all, so much, so strongly, so often.

Like now.

Initially he doesn’t even realise that he is crying. Slow salty tears, welling up in the corner of his eyes, spilling over, rolling down his face.

It’s not until they drip down, trailing along his cheeks, dripping off the end of his chin, that he notices the tears. Realises what they are. Realises he is crying.

He sniffs, raises a hand to dab at his face with his sleeve, rubbing snot and tears alike into the soft fabric. Gods, he is already somehow a mess. He doesn’t mean to be, didn’t intend to cry, so simply, so easily.

He never means to.

But that never stops it, stops it from building, bubbling over, spilling free.

He feels the hand stroking through his hair pause in its movements. Hears Geralt’s voice, low and soft in his ear, “Jaskier?”

His lips move to answer, in place of words a choked sob slips free. He shoves the knuckles of a clenched fist into his mouth to muffle it. teeth biting down hard, hard enough to surely leave an indent.

It doesn’t matter, the hand ached already to begin with, what is a little more pain if it keeps him quiet.

He feels Geralt still beneath him, muscles drawn tense and tight. Waits for the man to pull back, to shift, no doubt maddeningly gentle, taking care to do no harm as he moves away from the leaking mess of man currently weeping against him.

He will not blame him, for pulling away. The hour is late, they are both sore and aching, and in need of rest. Rest Jaskier is now selfishly disrupting. 

But instead… the hand returns to its movement, as gentle and soft as before, slowly trailing through his hair. He hears a murmured whisper, too quiet to pick out the words, but feels them, rumbling through Geralt’s chest.

He chokes, feels a sob spill from his lips once more. He does his best to swallow them down, not wanting to do this, not wanting to make a scene.

Instead they manifest within his body, shoulders shaking, convulsing with each silenced cry.

Tears fall hot and quick from his eyes, burning as they go, and still Geralt seemingly remains unchanged.

He shakes, buries down, twisting and turning, face hidden, pressed against the Witcher, dirtying the man’s shirt with his tears.

At this Geralt finally does react. Hand moving from his head to his back, rubbing soft circles in time with the hum of his unheard words.

He feels something in him snap at the movement, a crack within his chest, the dam breaks and he sobs, curled against the man. Hand twisted in Geralt’s shirt, tight enough to hurt, messy sobs and cries leaking out, filling the still night air.

He sobs, and twists and cries.

He feels his heart ache, beating out a painful tune, slow and heavy, the weight crushing within his chest. stealing his breath from his lips, leaving him with nothing but pain.

It hurts, gods does it hurt.

But slowly, so slowly he barely even notices, it begins to fade, the chasm within him slowly shrinks, ache fading from a deep, beating pain, to something lesser. Something manageable. Still there, still present, but no longer stealing his heart away.

He sniffs, still burrowed against Geralt. Manages to calm enough to choke out a few words, voice hoarse and rough from his cries. He chokes out an, “I’m sorry,” an, “I don’t know why I’m crying.”

It’s true, he doesn’t gods he doesn’t.

Geralt offers a heavy sigh, a quiet hum, and still gently rubbing circles into his back. 

He uncurls his hand, uses his sleeve to clean up the worst of his face, seeing no reason to ruin Geralt’s clothing any further.

His nose is still running, an unpleasant feeling, but there is little he can do in the way to stop it. his eyes too, still water, squeezing out the last remaining tears as he blinks to clear them.

His throat is raw, a rough bundle of emotion still balled up, stuck within it.

He swallows around it, managing a few more words, he’s not sure where the urge to talk has come from, but its not unusual, words are after all, his favoured weapon of choice. From cutting remarks to clever lies and twisted truths, he knows how to play words, how to use them in his favour.

Perhaps that’s part of why he feels so useless now, voice still rough and raw, lips trembling, words unable to escape his shaking throat with their usual ease.

Still, he pushes them out, as a defence, a shield, an excuse. It’s all he knows to do.

More apologies roll, clunky and forced, off his tongue, along with half-thought of explanations, trying to find ways to explain to a man who seems to feel nothing why he is weeping over little more than one lightly soured evening.

Geralt hums in response, offering a light chuckle, a quiet, “I forgive you, for costing us the room,” a soft, “it’s okay,” and even softer, “as long as you’re okay.”

It helps, it quiets part of his heart, part of the continued ache within him, though he finds himself still burning, burning to explain the tears.

He ties to, words still heavy and hoarse and _wrong._

Until Geralt stops him. Until Geralt says it doesn’t matter. He doesn’t need to explain, to justify his tears.

And that, that is what is enough to finally rid him of the persistent ache within him.

He still feels… heavy, empty, as though part of him slipped out, along with all the tears.

A deep weight settles over him, not the same crushing, chasm of weight of before, but something different, a heavy blanket of drowsiness, wrapping around him, settled comfortably against his skin.

He shivers at its touch, warm and comforting as it is, unsure if it is truly wise to let himself embrace it, let himself sink down, under its soft weight.

Geralt clearly has no such qualms, shifting, both to tuck the covers closer around them, and to press a gentle kiss to the bard’s brow.

He sighs at the touch, so soft and gentle against his skin. Geralt hums at the sigh, burying a hand back in Jaskier’s hair, holding him close and comfortable.

He sniffs again, letting heavy eyelids sink shut, body loose and wrung out, drained and heavy from his sobs.

Geralt hums again, a low soft rumble, vibrating through his chest.

He in turn sighs again, soft and warm and suddenly so tired.

Lets the whispers of sleep, tugging at his mind, finally flood in, wrapping over him, dragging him down into a soft, dreamless sleep.

**Author's Note:**

> i need... soft


End file.
